Paint it Red
by Cowardly-fangirl
Summary: Kiss your broken bones, mend your bleeding soul and speak not a word. A war approaches. Lovino fights for the weak, Feliciano lives for the strong and the nations exist for their country. Will Italy survive the turmoil which it is in? Will the Vargas siblings rise to the occasion to parry. Blood will be spilled.
1. The Empire Strikes Down

_His heart lay in Venice yet his feet were firmly placed in Rome.  
It was as his body kissed the bloodstained ground and the stench of fire extinguished his consciousness, that it was apparent that his last breaths wound not be inhaled on Venetian soil. He would die in the shadow of his brother's land, far away from the cradle of his youth and birthplace. _

* * *

The ominous grey clouds churned and broke as heavy rain fell from the heavens. It fell upon the ashes and rinsed away the once searing mess. It felt so cliché- so cruel. He didn't care that his brown military garbs were slowly drenched by the cool droplets or that his grimy hair obstructed his blurred vision; he didn't care that he lay in a puddle of crimson or that the debris sliced into his hands. Veneziano Italy hunched onto the stained concrete, crying in anguish- his large, shuddering hollers only growing louder. The purifying rain, soon stung his face with relentlessness. Again, he didn't care. He howled and wept through the rain, despite the threat of gunfire nearby and the pain which _would not _leave him.

_Why couldn't he feel anything?_

His arm quivered with exhaustion as he rolled onto his back, sharp fragments slicing through his uniform and drawing droplets of blood. His eyes were opened and jaded and was everything which Italy was not.  
His ember irises were lacklustre and desolate.  
It was glazed over and puffy, inhibiting any joy.  
It mirrored the miserable grey clouds and reflected the sheer devastation. His chest rose and fell as his cries grew softer until it fellow to a mellow whimper. He regretted it, oh he did. He'd paid dearly for his idiocy- his people had paid. How many children had he witnessed falling? How many parents did he view bloodied? How many people had paid for his decision?

_How many would continue to repent for him?_

Through his blurred vision, it was impossible to detect the military esque lad which approached the mourning Italian, holding an umbrella. The sheltered blond allowed Feliciano to cry until his throat was horse and his eyes were partially closed before approaching him  
"Come on lad, up you get." muttered the voice. Who did that voice belong to? Veneziano's mind dully connected the rueful voice with this perpetually cynical English ally. His form slouched further as his eyes rolled back, prompting his English ally to haul him upright in irritation and drag him across the deserted, ruined streets. England pondered where Veneziano obtained alcohol when the potent stench of alcohol hit him before deciding that he did not care.

_Why hadn't he listened?_

* * *

Veneziano Italy, the representative of North Italy, paced around the stuffy bunker in anticipation. His boots were dull and the brown fibres of his military garbs were melded with blood and grime. His hollow face contorted in a frown as his heavy lidded eyes bore at the cement below him. A purple bruise coloured his papery skin and his cheek dully noted so, stinging with a lingering touch. Above it all, though, was the intense chilling cold which nipped at his figure tips and his nose. The cold would not leave his body, regardless of his settings or clothes. It festered in his bones and dulled his muscles, magnifying the pain which coursed through his veins. The horrible aches which had once dwelled in his feet spread to his stomach and then to his lungs.  
He brought his gloved hand to his mouth, hacking and coughing as blood stained his leather clad hands.  
He felt as though his skin was ignited whist simultaneously remaining cold as his lungs was inflicted with nauseating pain, causing the Italian to crumble to the ground. Coughs wracked his body and his head spun.

The young man didn't comprehend the piercing green eyes which glared into his or the harsh grip which lifted him upright and steadied him.

"Huh?" he questioned, dazed and huffing for breath as he awaited his comrade's explanation. Silence.  
"What's wrong, Britain?" repeated Italy, who was attempting to ignore the pain.  
"He's fallen." Muttered the pom whose face was hardened "America's collapsed."  
England's hands fell limp and his pleading eyes were painful to behold. Italy could do nothing more but embrace the other nation. It was known that America was under immense economic and diplomatic strain which was exacerbated by the violent protests which became ever so common in war. America, his vibrant, energetic friend had fallen as his grandfather had done all those years ago. This war was like no other. The deaths were staggering and the conflicts were never ending. Conflicts which hadn't even begun in Europe had infected the whole world like a fatal epidemic.

Veneziano could cry no tears anymore. He felt empty, incomplete and scared beyond believe. A question festered in his mind and poisoned him with horror:  
Who would be next?  
Britain, whose body tensed and hand lay limp, completely broke down. The small boy who he had brought up had died. The chubby, infantile face of a small colony was etched in Britain's mind. The baby who had grown faster than many countries- who had made his fair share of mistakes- had left him behind.

"It's my fault." The former empire whispered "If I hadn't extradited that pitiful hacker, then he wouldn't have been weakened. It's my fault that those blasted protests arose."  
The casualties had been relentless and emotionally taxing in the war. He couldn't take the emotional strain anymore. Veneziano slowly withdrew from the embrace and uttered in an uncharacteristically quiet voice "It wasn't your fault. It's this war. This idiotic war…" The Italian was about to continue his lament when pain blossomed in his skull. He could feel the fire which slowly inched into his territory and could feel the weight of the tanks which crushed his fertile land. His skin tight and itchy as corruption poisoned his body. Soon, he would join America. The numbness brought him to the ground as he doubled over and wretched. England merely watched as he leaned on the concrete wall.  
"You're dying, too." He insinuated monotonously, his thick, unbecoming eyebrows creasing. Feliciano was lifted off the ground from the collar. "You're not going to die you bloody fool!" England's voice seemed to rise along with the syllable count. His clouded eyes were ignited by deliriousness "If you die, I'll drag you back from the damn grave, you hear me!" Arthur's cold fingers pressed into Veneziano's stubbled jaw painfully as his eyes bore into the smaller man. North Italy barely registered his body thudding upon the hard floor as he was dropped by Arthur who stalked out of the room.  
It was the damn war, he half-heartedly persuade himself.

* * *

The pen glided across the pages with ease. The thick ink seemed to glimmer despite the dull lighting. It was a simple movement which possibly had catastrophic complications. He could merely stare at his bony fingers which gripped the pen tightly.  
Was he making the right decision?  
A scarred bronzed hand lifted his shaking wrist upward and he was forcibly eased into a nearby chair. At that moment, Feliciano's tattered boots seemed like the most interesting item in the world. His heart pumped in his chest as it struggled to deoxygenate his blood which had been poisoned by corruption.  
"It is done." A gruff, accented voice muttered. The simple statement froze him to the spot. So it was official, huh?

* * *

His heart was on fire- it devoured his age old buildings and ignited his land, rivalling the furnace of hell. He would not die so indignantly- Venice would not go down without a fight.  
Even if his face was charred beyond recognition or bullets disfigured him, he would discard his white flag and fight. Enough blood was spilt.  
His once pristine lands were desolate, hellish and sickening. What had happened to his people? What of his territory?  
His formerly joyous features contorted with desperation and something snapped. An internal failsafe, perhaps, had robbed him of cowardice and fear, replacing the emotions with raw instinct. Bloodied, burnt and bruised, he faced the man which had once been a comrade. Oh how he wished for the arrogant British man to taste the smoke and the blood as he had.  
His enemy wielded two revolvers and an additional handgun whist he merely had a switchblade and pistol at his dispense.  
Three years prior, they had been mourning over a comrade.  
Currently, they were fighting to the death.  
The duo encircled one another, bearing their teeth like animals. Abruptly England straighten up and smiled before humming an unsettling tune, dissipating the silence.  
"Well," the pom began "why don't we begin?"  
The humming stopped abruptly as the blonde man lunged at Veneziano, consumed with bloodlust.  
With skill he hadn't known of, the brunette dodged the British man's punch and loaded his own pistol preparing for recoil as he shot at the speedy British trice. The first bullet missed, the pom miraculously dodged the second and the third was grazed his cheek. Utilising his enemies blind spot, Veneziano hastily placed his gun in his Hollister and ran forward, wielding his blade, attempting to withstand the horrible dizziness which wracked his vision. Speedily regaining his composure, the representation of Britain rolled left and narrowly missed Veneziano's attack, prompting the Italian to stumble forward. Britain had closed in on Italy when the Venetian man speedily sprung at Britain, slicing his enemy deeply across the eye, narrowly missing the intended target.  
His opponent swore, hastily regaining his wits and throwing a brutal punch at Italy. The impact forced the Italian to stumble backward, allowing England to establish a deadly grapple around the brunet's neck. Bringing his knee to the immobilised country's stomach, the English men smirked victoriously.  
A chilling rhyme left Englands's crimson dyed lips "Venezia is burning down, burning down, burning down." He paused, tightening his grip on Veneziano, his nails drawing blood from his opponent "Italy is falling now, my dear nation" the brunet writhed in pain as a fist collided with his stomach "Fix it up with your white flags, your white flags, your white flags. Fix it up with white, pure flags, my dear comrade" His voice became transitioned from its initial roughness to a softer note before continuing" surrendering shall never do, never do never do. Death will come to those who wane, my dear nation." Italy struggled, strained and thrashed against the tightening grip.  
"Is my singing displeasing?" the menacing British rhetorically questioned. Italy was violently struggling now and finally broke free, swaying in the process. Italy had no time to attempt another assault for Britain, whose voice returned to its throaty, cynically mocking manner boomed "It was London which burned down because of you, you bloody coward. This time, though, it will be Italy."  
The Mediterranean's escape was for naught for at that moment, England received the transmission from his ally.  
"We're ready. We give you the honour: Eliminate him."  
England pulled the trigger.

It wasn't the bullet which killed Veneziano or the knife which slit Romano's throat, though.  
It was the death certificate signed by his boss.

Italy burnt down.

* * *

-End.

**Author's Notes: **I quite fancy the cliche plots where characters die and are reincarnated so I decided to put my own spin on it. It's intended that this fanfiction will be set in a dystopia. Feliciano and Lovino are the main characters but there will be references to the others, particularly America. The plot will probably be serious but the characterization will (hopefully) correspond to Himaruya's. Thank you for reading this and remember, all comments are welcome!

**Chapter/fanfic Notes: **I should apologize for Veneziano's OOC-ness. Additionally, I should mention that England is humming and singing London Bridge is Falling Down. Remember, he was the British empire which was pretty scary and at times, cruel. I believe that he has the capacity to be horrifying, especially when betrayed. Oh yeah, as for the surrender, it occurred in the short paragraph. I think that it will also be great to state that the members who were present in this scene was Lovino, Switzerland and Germany (who were neutral). Well... I think that's it.

Cheers.

**Disclaimer: **In no way do I own Hetalia or its characters.

**Warnings: **In the foreseeable future there will be blood and violence so it will be T and above.


	2. Death of a Politician

_Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall_  
Lives lost, countries exterminated and a world plunged into anarchy: This was the new age. The world was left in ruins. Ancient countries and world powers alike crumbled like the demolished buildings which lay stagnant in abandoned ruins. The world was never rid of hate- the negativity merely festered and decayed until finally, it became a warped deadly force which ultimately compromised any superficial peace which was carefully constructed.

_Humpty Dumpty had a great fall_  
From the ashes of democracy rose a new system- a sick, cruel concoction of fascism and monarchy- a system which ruled with an iron clad fist- it was kingdom which was riddled with corruption and blood stains- a system which prohibited any further conflict by plunging mankind into an abyss of nothingness.

_All the kings horses and all the kings men_  
There, perched on the rooftop of a skyscraper, the young man edged toward oblivion. His breath hitched and his heart thumped in his ears as he uttered a final prayer before he flew. His body gained momentum and the concrete approached at an alarming rate. In a single moment he was sprawled on the ground. Blood dripped from the politician's skull and hell broke loose.

_Couldn't put Humpty together again._

* * *

The towering skyscrapers of the vast metropolis shook and rumbled. Metal warped and burned as the concrete foundation of the city was crushed by the stampede of an army. The army was miniscule in comparison to the towering structures, but protested gallantly. The army were young and naïve; idealistic and optimistic. Their worn out boots and sneakers clacked rhythmically against the sleek, electronic paths. They were masked and wielded flames, firearms and lasers. Buildings were devoured by fiery beasts, born of protest; metallic, lifeless police were shot down with no mercy and blinding light was drilled through the skull of the unlucky. Sirens blared through the chaotic streets as the hell broke loose. Soon, the streets were filled with a sticky, metallic but undeniably human substance which bled from the limp bodies of protestors.

In the shadows, a lone man observed the bloodshed with disgust. Before his location was detected, he slid behind the sleek metal walls and disappeared. This man-Lovino Vargas- was a reckless, broken mess but knew damn well what he fought for.

He had one more thing left to do.

Adjusting his satchel, the young man sprinted in coverage of the cold metal walls. A grin of mischievous joy adjourned his olive features as he turned into an alleyway. It was curfew and the streets were eerily empty- well, when you ignored the remnants of the quashed protest. He gripped the rusting handles of the creaky stairs and ascended speedily, craning his neck to ensure that the drones were not in pursuit. He found himself above the building, staring down at the unsuspecting drones nervously before he stepped backwards, muttered a prayer and sprinted toward the edge of the building. His legs flew as the air lashed at his face but soon, his feet were planted on the edge of the slightly higher building. Inhaling deeply, he continued to sprint forward, climbing, jumping and dodging until he reached it: a large, towering structure in the dead centre of the metropolis. Hastily searching in hid tattered satchel, he found a metallic, cylindrical item. In a swift movement, he removed its plastic lid and places his finger on the notch.

A large cacophonic groan of alert drones scared him senseless. It screeched and blared, signalling for required support. Shit, he had to run.  
His movements were rushed yet meticulous as he closed the lid on the can, placed it in his bag and dug his hells into the beam, we he'd been perched. He stepped backward and jumped.  
Dodging this and that, climbing across the lustrous buildings and swearing all the while, he barely evaded the horrifying bots. He sprinted for dear life, hiding in the shadows and crawling across the crumbling, forgotten cannels of the city. Darkness no longer existed during the night. Holographic advertisements, buildings and drones shone with mechanical light. He was careful to avoid the visual range of the automated law enforcers which scouted for unlucky bystanders and criminals alike. They were grotesque creatures born of metal. The robots resembled metallic human-beast hybrids and bore glaring crimson eyes and illuminated copper joints. He'd been forced onto the dangerous slums of the town for five long years but still, the nightmarish creatures scared the shit out of 'em.  
He hated everything about the city. He always had.  
He hated the constant stench of chemicals and toxins,  
the nightmarish glares of the robots, the cluster of dark skyscrapers and more importantly, the superficial people. Ignoring the anger which bubbled away in his guts and the blaring sirens, he focused on his worn sneakers, determined to remain undetected in the abandoned alleyway. Lovino hid beneath his oversized hoodie and kept his head low, careful not to trip over his tattered shoe laces. Soon, he reached his destination. It was a dilapidated alleyway which had not seen the severely flawed society in years, decades. Gunfire seemed to ricochet off the walls and the blaring sirens pierced through the silence. Silently, he searched for a visually undetectable dint in the crumbling wall, hastily glancing sideways before locating the unnatural contour and pulling it. The dent was a lever which opened a camouflaged garage door. It creaked opened just enough for Lovino to squeeze through. The doorway lead to a garage of sorts which contained stacks and stacks of boxes which were hardly visible in the scarce lighting. Edging his way to the far left corner of the garage, careful not to trip over any of the boxes, Lovino reached his destination. There lay a cellar door within the garage: a basement in a basement. His hands moved around carefully before he found a cool metal handle in his hand. With a swift motion, he opened it and progressed downward.

The passageway was dark, damp and horribly impossible to view, forcing the young man to inch his way forward cautiously.  
He descended downward and walked  
and walked  
and walked.

Finally, light diffused from the tunnel and he exited the passageway into the underground society of insurrectionists- the nest of his people.

The brunette inhaled the stale, cheaply filtered air and adjusted to the light. It wasn't amazing but the small, crowded and cramped underground settlement was his home.

* * *

There wasn't a word in the Italian or English dictionary to describe the underground settlement of the Resistance. Unused water systems which were abandoned post-World War III became cannels; bridges were constructed using bricks scavenged and the structural strength was provided by buildings opposed to walls. The old walls had been hollowed out and became homes to faculties used in accordance with its corresponding topic or communal residential component. The society fundamentally relied on the compliance of the various sectors which worked to provide for the people as a whole. Selfishness became a violation of law and the resistance became a collection of people who worked for the whole, not the one. There were campuses dedicated to rest; a large cafeteria to provide food; a communal bath and buildings which represented specific industries. There was no such thing as apartments, cottages or homes but dwellings which were built for specific purposes. The complexes were divided between communal uses and industrial use. The specific industries were created not simply to provide for the community but to circumvent the major law of the Kingdom of New Italy.  
The law was simply and inherently mortifying.  
It was the prohibition of art so to ensure the suppression of expression, eliminating the issue of rebellion.  
Ironically, this law had prompted the creation and growth of the underground resistance. The sectors which supported both the society and its ideals were split into six: Visual art; drama and music; catering, woodworks and writing. These major industries contained sub-categorisations which were creation; preservation and recovery; development and alterations.

The underground society was cramped, unclean and contained an abundance of art which made up for the unfavourable conditions. Technology was strictly used out of necessity or for maintenance for the majority of the society was built using scraps collected from the ever present ruins. In the centre of the settlement lay a beacon which was pivotal to the society: It used the ever so advanced technology to filter the underground air using the fresh air found above the settlement. Electricity was harvested using hydroelectricity provided by the canals and frugality became a lifestyle. The people of the underground struggled with their limited resources yet witnessed beauty constantly.

Before he could even dream of a deserved rest, the young man was required to report to The Ministry of Catering. He was assigned the bothersome job of scavenging. It was a job he disliked but a job which kept the society functioning. In his ragged, brown satchel was the loot he had obtained from his chaotic day above ground. Nearly twice he'd been caught by citizens and almost once by the mechanic law enforcers.  
God, he hated scavenging.  
Regardless of his blatant dislike of the profession, it was known that Lovino Vargas was an excellent pick pocketer- in fact, he was the known as a looter of the highest calibre. He'd begun his search in the small and illegal China Town where he'd obtained a large sum of Euros which were only viably commodities on the black market. He was also lucky enough to steal two grams of ground coffee, a gram of cocoa beans, powdered milk and a handful of vanilla beans- all of which were rare commodities- from a shady marketplace within the district which was untouched by the government. From the illegal, secret district, he had trekked to the dingy residences of the untouchables where he'd found a large pouch of maize meal. From there he travelled across the region, never once stopping but unsuccessfully attaining any more products. The Resistance either collected the scavenged food or bartered it for a quintessential commodity.

He dragged himself toward the eastern wing of the society where the faculties were positioned and finally reached the Ministry of Catering which was joined to the Communal Cafeteria- the only communal facility on the eastern range. He'd worked in the Cooking industry for years and was still in the central ranks- not that he complained. The facility was built of the same hardy, ugly brown bricks as the other buildings but occasionally used strange white pillars as supports. He quite liked his workspace for it was filled with the enticing aroma of foods. It saddened him greatly that his office was located at the far back of the buildings, away from the kitchens, however. The mismatched building was comprised of two segments. The first half of the building was conjoined with the cafeteria and focused on the practical component of the skill. It was where students learned the art of cooking. The hind half of the building was reserved for the theoretical component of the job which was dedicated to the jobs of attaining ingredients, the creation and preservation of recipes, the creation of food lists and finally, the studies of ancient cooking arts. Lovino was forced to act as a freelancer who specialised in the theoretical aspect of his profession.

Lovino, whose feet ached and whose body demanded sleep, directed his energy toward locating the administrative booth so to drop off his satchel and to inform the ministry that he'd returned. He dodged the chefs as he stormed through the kitchen, took a detour across the categorisation passageway and maneuverer through the ever so busy research and data compilation room before he finally reached the quiet administration. Behind the desk sat his dear friend, Anri who greeted him with a tired smile. Her shoulder length hair was messily tied back and bags lay under her emerald eyes- she seemed as exhausted as he. Much too drained, he merely uttered an incoherent greeting and a wink before wordlessly exchanging his satchel for a form which he signed and returned. The exchange was friendly and brief. He bid her a polite goodbye before hurriedly leaving the facility, deciding to ignore the hunger in his belly in favour of a rest in the Chamber of Sleep.

The arduous journey from the eastern area of the settlement to the west drained any remaining energy Lovino had. He dragged his caning feet across the pavement until he reached the dilapidated building of rest. He searched, determined to seek rest and finally located a free bed in the far back of the hall. The Chamber of Sleep was a large room, solely comprised of singular beds. The mattresses were hard, the blankets were thin and the temperatures were monitored. Those who could not find a bed slept on the ground or opted for rest on the streets. It wasn't ideal but it was necessary.  
Thankful to have found a bed, he removed his ragged, threadbare sneakers and fell upon the mattress, immediately falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

His comrade has once remarked that faith lay in the hands of the proletarians.  
Lovino didn't believe this.  
He wholeheartedly knew that faith lay not in the hands of the proletarians but in the grimy hands of the resistance.

* * *

End.

**Author's Notes: **I cannot help but feel that Lovino is out of character… If you guys have any issues with this or comments, I urge to tell me. Comments are always appreciated!

**Chapter/fanfic Notes: Sorry about this ending. I just wrote this chapter to provide a brief description of the underground movement and Lovino's place in it. The next chapter will be based on Feliciano's job and his place in the society.**

**Disclaimer: **In no way do I claim rights for the ownership of Hetalia or its characters.

**Warnings: **In the foreseeable future there will be blood and violence so it will be T and above.


	3. One Day in the Life of Feliciano Vargas

A terribly loud yawn escaped Feliciano's mouth as he proceeded across the marble tiles of the passageway. Grey light filtered through the windows and did little to awaken the young man whose eyes were barely opened. Aside from the rhythmic clacks of his boots and occasional sighs, the hallway was eerily quiet. The monochromatic passage had no mental stimulation and threatened to lull the young man into sleep. Never would he adapt to the painfully early schedule which came with the job of a politician- well perhaps a politician wasn't the correct word. His job was undeniably special but not quite necessary. He liked to believe that his allocation was intended to keep him imprisoned in the system- what did he care, though? He slugged across the hall, neglecting his trajectory course, consequently tripping over a heap of black and white fur. The ball of fur pounced up and hissed at Feliciano who had fallen flat on his face, whimpering in pain.  
"Oww, that really hurt…" he mumbled to himself, dusting his regulation uniform and slowly standing upright, wishing to obtain his briefcase from the floor.

He'd stopped himself from reaching to the black case when he realised an additional accessory which adorned it. The cat had obviously realised what little threat Feliciano posed for it had lazily settled itself upon his bag.  
God, just looking at the lazing cat made Feliciano more tired.  
The feline was a heavy old thing, Feliciano realised as he attempted to haul the cat off his luggage. Even when he'd grabbed the animal's black mane, it merely swiped at his hand lazily before meowing and continuing on with its nap.  
"If you want to play it that way…" Feliciano began puffing up his chest in a feeble attempt to appear menacing. He was about to continue his intimidation tactic when a heavily accented voice boomed out behind him, making the young man jump out of his skin.  
"Hey, is that you, Feliciano?" The youthful voice called out.  
"Yeah," the Italian man answered before turning around greeting his colleague "It's nice to see you Alfred."  
The brunet approached his friend and swooped in to greet the other man like a true Italian, barely missing his friend who had scrambled a good foot away. Feliciano's smile fell, making Alfred feel incredibly guilty.  
"Sorry, man. I'm not used to the touchy feely-ness of this place…" apologised Alfred sheepishly, who instead opted for a handshake "Well…" he trailed off, deciding against his next comment.  
"Hehe, sorry." Said Feliciano, taking Alfred up on the compromise "These greeting must be pretty strange to you… Then again, Americans are a mystery..."  
"So, you seemed kind of distraught a moment before. What's up?" Alfred asked, slyly changing the topic.  
"I tripped over this really chubby cat which decided to sleep on my briefcase." Feliciano huffed, stepping sideways and motioning at the cat for a good measure of emphasis. Recognition flashed across Alfred's tanned features as he caught sight of the pesky feline.  
"Dude, I know that cat. It's Max!" Striding past Feliciano, the blond effortlessly picked up the cat that seemed to recognise him, too. "Well, it looks like your problem's solved. He really isn't that heavy though…"muttered the man who adjusted his large spectacles as he placed the cat back on the ground.  
"You're just too strong." Feliciano retorted cheerfully "Thanks, though."

Leaving the stray behind, the duo walked toward the monthly meeting, chatting animatedly to one another.  
"How did you know that cat, anyway?" Feliciano asked curiously.  
"He's a wandering cat that I've befriended." Alfred replied, his emerald green eyes brimming with pride.  
"Have you thought about adopting it?" Feliciano questioned "You know what will happen if the authorities find a stray cat here…" he trailed off, hoping that Alfred understood the subtext.  
"Nah," The warning had gone over Alfred's head "I'm sure he'll be fine. Plus, the authorities will get suspicious if a foreigner like me decides to pick up a street stray."

The monthly meeting was an utter drag, per norm. Various ministers and politicians of ambiguous calibre gathered to discuss a variety of issues which would then be proposed to the king. It was a lengthy process which took a total of three days. The meetings were comprised of two segments divided by a lunch break where the members of the meeting retreated to the large cafeteria. Feliciano, who was only acquainted with Alfred, was forced to remain attentive for his friend sat on the other side of the room during the boring segments.

Feliciano was honestly surprised that he hadn't dropped dead from boredom as the group was dismissed for their much needed lunch break. Impatiently he waited for Alfred at the large oak door of the conference room before calling out to his comrade, urging his friend to hurry. Finally, the two were on their way to the cafeteria.

The conference was held in the political district of The Kingdom of New Italy, in the Embassy Complex. The Embassy Complex was fascinating to Alfred, who recognised the segment of the metallic structure as the Colosseum. It was known that the monarchs had converted the old landmark into a multi-story embassy which contained levels for the various taskforces. The old Coliseum was visibly incorporated in the design and comprised a total of five stories whist the sleek metallic addition had a further six. It was a towering building which was home to the embassies of the Anglo-French, New American, Canada, Australia, South Africa and a variety of other countries. It was quite impressive. The cafeteria was a smaller building located in the centre of the political district. From the Embassy, the duo were required to walk across a large ramp which connected to the Department of Technology (where Alfred worked) then into the glass conjunction which linked to the Department Agriculture where they caught a cable car to the retro sheik Cafeteria. As the grey and white building supported the various departments and sectors, it was vast and constantly buzzing with hungry personnel. The building smelt carcinogenic and painfully metallic. As for the food-it was utter rubbish. On that fateful day, they were served a cup of rehydrated juice, a serve of canned spaghetti bolognaise, 25g of cheap chocolate and an orange supplement which hardly tasted right.  
"This food is so gross that I wanna die." Muttered Feliciano dejectedly as though he'd expected better.  
"Man, what I'd give for a hamburger right now." complained Alfred in partial agreement.  
At this sentiment, Feliciano paused "What's a hamburger?"  
"Wait-wait, what?" Alfred questioned incredulously "Don't be a lame-o… Wait-there is no way you're serious!" He exclaimed, earning a few stares  
"I'm serious, ve. What is it?" Feliciano questioned in interest.  
"So, it's like a bun which has a slab of really good meat in it." Alfred began almost passionately "And you can have it with lettuce and tomatoes and bacon- sometimes, you can even buy it with chips which are deep fried potatoes!"  
"That actually sounds horrible…" Feliciano muttered, scrunching his nose in distaste.  
"Don't be like that!" Alfred shrieked, appearing to take Feliciano's disapproval offensively "You know what? One day you and I will go back home so that you can for yourself how awesome hamburgers are!"  
Feliciano grinned at his friend's antics "That'd be pretty cool. There's one thing I have to ask you, though. Are there many pretty ladies where you're from?"  
"Dude, you're actually really sleazy."

-  
As the duo departed the cafeteria the conversation which followed was utterly outlandish.  
"Hey, Alfred, how did you enter Italy's boarder?" he began "It's really uncommon for foreigners to gain passage here… More importantly, why would you leave America for Italy? This place isn't exactly utopia…" a sharp pang of guilt radiated from his heart as the unnecessary comment was uttered. The question had lingered in his mind ever since he'd been introduced to Alfred- In fact, the question had always been on the tip of his tongue. He wondered what had given him the courage to ask such a question.

Alfred gave Feliciano a strange look.

"Um- I mean, why would you leave behind your family, burgers and your culture?" That wording settled better.  
Alfred removed his circular glasses from the bridge of his nose and cleaned it with the hem of his uniform, mulling over the question  
"Well…" he returned his glasses to its original position and halted "Do you know how World War III began, Feliciano?" The young man ran his fingers through his hair, appearing uncharacteristically serious.  
"Ve, I think I know the general jest of things- I mean, we aren't told much about it but…" Feliciano sighed and continued "The conflict initially had nothing to do with Italy- I think it began between India and- what was it called again- oh, Pakistan. It had something to do Cashmire and the death of soldiers or citizens- one of those. America immediately opted to form an alliance with India and China allied with Pakistan, opportunistically stationing itself near Tibet. Japan saw ample opportunity to reobtain some Island between China and it- this caused more problems. When this occurred, a civil war began in India and chaos kind of broke out, Ve." He paused for a moment to lick his awfully chapped lips before continuing "England then took the opportunity to extradite some political activist who had ultimately compromised America's military. The embassy which has been invaded was not pleased but the activist faced charges in another country-further north- and ended up in America and was charged for treason and was imprisoned for life." Feliciano fell silent for a moment, feeling a strange heavily weight on his gut. His throat felt tight for a moment. Before he could continue, his American comrade continued on for him.  
"An organisation which began as an unorganised group of online vigilantes soon rose, angered. The group unanimously agreed that the man charged for treason was actually being prosecuted for revealing the truth. Somehow, the group which allied under a title took form in America and rose against the government-which at the time was infamous for outrageous acts of misogyny, racism and ignorant bias. These people rose against the unjust system and contributed to the political then economic collapse of America…" He sighed miserably before clearing his throat and continuing "Prior to this, the northern provinces of your country believed that their crippled financial sector would be boosted if they entered the war but the south wished to remain neutral- that was the Italian civil war. The country was torn apart and the dislike between the North and South became catastrophic. The North joined England and America and the South remained neutral. The government was split and weakened. Soon the North province was at war. Frankly, the north fought well until the collapse of America…" Alfred paused "I'm sure you know the rest. North Italy defects but the South was captured by England which inevitably led to a governmental collapse, ensuring the consequent fall of Italy which, decades later a national rebellion forced out the English and established a kingdom: this kingdom." Alfred was surprisingly intellectual, Feliciano realised before he prodded further.  
"So what?" he questioned "What does this have to do with you, ve?"  
The thoughtful haze which seemed to cloud Alfred's eyes disappeared and his brash, cheerful self returned.  
"Dude, what I'm saying is that like Old America- well the people, I suppose- I want to be a hero! While I don't have the comforts of home, I have an experience which many Americans won't even dream of. That's why I left: I want to fix the wrongs- to be a hero!" He grinned at his brunet friend and light heartedly whacked his friend on the back before hastening his pace.

They had nearly reached the oak doorway of the conference room by then, where Alfred stopped for a moment and angled his head toward Feliciano who had fallen behind "Sometimes you have to risk everything to be a hero: your home, your comforts and sometimes your life. Remember this dude: We all have the opportunity to be the hero. Don't waste yours, okay?" Alfred's sentiment baffled Feliciano who had been left in the doorway by Alfred who speed away into the monochromatic room.

* * *

-End.

**Author's Notes: **Sorry if Alfred is OOC in the end. Anyway, I needed to include the last paragraphs to provide some perspective for you guys whist informing you of the overall events which led to Italy's dissolution. The ending is still not finalised…

I also attempted to imply the type of totalitarian monarchy Italy is in. For further clarification: Rome is the political capital of the kingdom and is solely dedicated to the political aspect of the society. There are no proletarians in Rome for this reason. Additionally, it is also worth mentioning that the Italian boarder is nearly impossible to cross legally. In this Fanfiction, if one wished to enter Italian land it would strictly be for work. The foreigner would have to be exceptional to attain a pass.

There's one thing I want to ask you guys:

Do you want a segment in the next chapter which regards Alfred and the hardships which he faced in order to become a politician in New Italy?

Who would you like me to focus on: Lovino, Feliciano or Alfred?

Is anyone particularly out of character?

**Chapter/fanfic Notes: **I'm sure you'll pick up that Alfred has green eyes. I wrote this to elaborate that whist they are the reincarnations of the Nations, they _aren't _exactly the same. I plan for this be explored in relation to their personalities which, upon a mere glance, it strikingly similar to their nation-selves.

I thought that it would be cool to include Americat in this so he makes a debut… I think that's really all I have to say (for now).

**Disclaimer: **In no way do I claim rights for the ownership of Hetalia or its characters.

**Warnings: **In the foreseeable future there will be blood and violence so it will be T and above.


	4. The Nation, the Eagle and the Snitch

_~145 years earlier_

The streets were a breeding ground for despair. Skyscrapers remained tall and mighty, immune to the destruction below. America had not fallen in the gloriously cinematically cliché sense: the government was quashed and the people rose- they rose and suffered as a consequence. Glass windows were shattered, streets were irreparable and graffiti littered the suburbs but the stoic towers remained the same. Riots were ever present and disastrous repercussions rendered the once bustling metropolis a military controlled, mid-protest conflict zone.

America had fallen as Rome had.

The children of the dissolved country sought new, better lives on the shores of other countries, joining the desperate tide of refugees. The tables had unceremoniously turned on the old superpower, leaving behind a plot of land, devoid of structure. Born from the ashes was a young child, adopted by the people. He did not age, his silence did not wane and his grim set expression was default. The personification of New America was alive, starkly different to his predecessor, but existent.

Flown from the despairing front in the east, the representative of Canada met face to face with his brother's legacy. The horrors brought by war were supressed in favour of icy calculations and cruel strategies- it was the only way to survive. War had become a daily struggle and joys became rarities.

Canada, drawn to a congregation of street dwellers, found a limp child grasping the equally bloodied body of an elderly woman, an obliterated car strewn metres away. Tears stained the child's pudgy lifeless cheeks as his body remained limp. Canada, now numb to the ever present situations, questioned bystanders, attempting to comprehend the situation. At last, a stout pig like man was kind enough to tell the tale of a street child whose guardian protected him from a speeding car only for the duo to die together. It was obvious that the innocent duo was caught amidst another protest for the mass bore masks of the uprising vigilantes and poster's inked with superficial slogans. Oh how he hated these fiends who had ultimately plunged a blade into America's heart.

A scrawny man, whose wispy brown hair was embossed with grease, fell to his knees, horror dawning on his wrinkled features. "Why?" he questioned hysterically "Why is this happening to us? We don't deserve this damn war!" Whispers spread through the increasingly large crowd "What do we have left?"  
Oh god, a riot was due to break  
"Nothing. Nothing at all- not even our damn country!"

The carcasses were long forgotten as a wave of blind rage metastasized through the heartbroken crowd.  
Canada, who had attempted to calm the mob, was ignored and pushed away from the mass, thrown to the concrete below. He watched in horror as the people of America revolted against the unjust war.  
"Stop it!" exclaimed a childish voice, a great distance away. Canada watched a blur flash before his spectacled eyes as a child leapt into the crowd. "What are you doing?" He slowly stood up, dusting his scrapped hands as the child continued. "Is this how you respect our home, you pigs- even when beauty is before your eyes?" The crowd was silenced by the brunet child who physically appeared seven "Before you, an act of American kindness occurred. She gave up her life for him. Sure, they didn't survive but she was willing to _save _him!" The child's puny form was barely visible through the crowd as the bore like man Canada had conversed with rebutted the statement.  
"What would you know? Get out of here- your mother must be worried."  
"No." muttered the child, tiredly, enraging the stout man.  
"What would you know of America, boy!? You weren't even alive before the war."  
"I will not give up on this land. I _will _not." The child bellowed, bearing his gap riddled teeth "I have no mama, I have no papa. Clarice said that she found me a very long time ago on her steps. She died and you know what her last words were? She told me not to give up on America." The child's cheeks puffed out as tears were barely supressed.

Canada, snapping from his stunned trance, leapt from the ground- ignoring the stinging laceration on his hand as the cogs in his mind turned. This child- could he really be?

The nation ran forward, forcibly pushing his way through the crowd, approaching the young 'un. The protesters spat at his military garments and stance yet he persisted, reaching the centre of the mass, finding the scrawny figure of the boy. The child cowered beneath the representative's shadow as he firmly grasped the kid's sickeningly thin arm.  
"This boy is right." The blond stated "Please, everyone, go home." As the representative of Canada, he had power over the people. Nations weren't human, they were stronger. The Canadian man stared at the humans, his lean figure stood tall and cold eyes, chilling the audience before him.  
Slowly, the crowd dispersed, not questioning Canada's authority- simply leaving under command.

The Canadian man turned to the child beside him who wriggled underneath his iron grasp.  
"What's your name?" he asked gently as the child flinched.  
"What's it to you!" the child spat, guardedly.  
"You see, I'm part of the army. I need to know your name" Canada attempted to reason with the child who struggled beneath his hands.  
"No." The kid was stubborn.  
"If you tell me, I'll give you a week worth of rations." Bribery would be the key.  
"M-my name is New America. I know it sounds stupid but it's true, sir."  
"Is that so? Would you believe that my name's Canada. It's nice to meet you…" Maybe, just maybe the child was… "Really?!" the child's eyes flashed with caution "Are you tricking me?"  
"I promise you."  
"I'd better return to my home before someone steals my bed again…" the child muttered evasively, attempting to snatch his bony arm for Canada's grip.  
"Did you know, my brother's name was America?" the Canadian questioned, catching the boy's attention.  
"I don't believe you." The child muttered thoughtfully.  
"How long has it been since you've eaten?" the blond asked, changing the topic promptly.  
"Two days." The child muttered ruefully, slightly perking up at the prospect of food.  
"How would you like some hot chocolate and some maple cookies, kid?"

The rest was quite literally history.  
Years passed and they did not age. The street grew organised and livelier. A memorial structure was erected in the town square and the ragged lacerations of war slowly healed. The buildings, now aged and somewhat dilapidated still stood tall. Business flourished, the war ended. Peace slowly returned.

"Uncle, what was my papa like?" questioned the young boy whose cheeky stare starkly contrasted his scarred companion. His brown eyes searched the aged contours belonging to his favourite uncle as the question hung unwanted in the air. The young boy waited patiently for his blond uncle to return from his nostalgic thoughts as he idly fiddled with his cosy mittens.  
"He was the brashest man I have ever known but his determination was contagious…" the reply was more of a rueful statement than an answer, the youth decided- not understanding the vast majority of the sentence.  
"No." began the brunet child "I mean, was he like you? What did he look like?"  
"We looked similar- in fact, I was always mistaken for your dad." There was a momentary silence "He was a hero who lived long enough for wrong and right to become to become blurred." Shaking his head, the elder man, clasped his nephews hand and progressed forward "Let's go, Junior." Oh how it hurt to recall his brother. Toward the end, his naïve brother bore horrific scars. Canada was glad that the young boy- New America- was a clean slate, born of the ashes belonging to his sibling. This child, once viewed as a parasitic, cheap replica of his brother, had become a child belonging to him. Age brought patience and wisdom beyond comprehension and wisdom was a gift imparted in war, Canada realised as he guided his brother's legacy to their apartment.

The elder nation paused. Oh how he would miss and long for his days of youth: the time when he certainly felt immortal, inhuman and secure.

* * *

_On that day, the air was laced with the pungent odour paint. It made his head whiz and his nose ache as he struggled to filter it. His mother had taken him to the newly renovated mall to purchase stationary for school and damn, was he excited. He sprinted forward, through the bustling mall, his antique converse's untied.  
"Alfred, wait!" his mother commanded, worriedly.  
Of course he'd disregarded her warnings, he always did. "Mom" he'd said "Don't worry. Let's go! C'mon."  
The market was lively, small shops lined the walls and trinkets of varying fortune were sold in the nooks and crannies. Alfred speed ahead, now dragging his exhausted mother through the complex. _

_Within the hour, they had successfully acquired stationary and Alfred had luckily been purchased a burger. Soon enough, they exited the vast shopping district and had begun their trek across the city square to the bustling parking lot. It turned out, that on this beautifully calm summer morning a riot broke out. He could never remember what had brought them to the centre of the square, so far away from their destination. He liked to believe that it was fate. Alfred, in his ten years of life, had never witnessed such an amazing spectacle. As his mother, in a protective frenzy dragged him away, he saw the most magnificent sight. A young man before him, who bore a strange cowlick, lifted his fist to the sky and yelled out, coercing the passive protesters to action. The tanned youth caught sight of Alfred and stared at him for a moment, seemingly paralysed before a strange emotion flashed across his dark eyes. Again, he shouted, louder than before. The statement was engraved in Alfred's mind.  
"The eagle lives on! The eagle will break free from the governments bonds!"  
Moments passed and Alfred watched the image of the young man shrink until the remanent of his encounter remained embedded in his mind. _

Alfred could never recall what had been so majestic about the tanned lad he witnessed that sweltering summer day. It was a scene which altered his future; it led him to Italy and introduced him to justice- heroicness. He often wondered what had happened to that rebellious teenager. Had that youth soared above the flawed system or had he conformed to society's deluded beliefs? Hell if he knew.

He believed, whole heartedly that the eagle, synonymous with freedom, was imprisoned, clipped and destroyed. He slouched in his leather clad chair and toyed with the ripped hemming of his blazer. It seemed that in this foreign kingdom, everything was in disarray- the people and the closed doors. He closed his eyes and messaged his temples which ached dully. How on earth did the time go so fast- surely he'd be punished for his foolishness.  
It was well past curfew and, as a foreigner on probation; his blunder would not be received well.  
His office lay in stagnant in the dark, ill lit by the lone glowering screen of a laptop. Alfred's mind was elsewhere, focused on the quaint conversation he shared with Feliciano. He acquainted himself with the cheerful lad by chance, mistakenly crashing into their friendship- quite literally. They were both the disliked and ill-judged as the complete idiot and the filthy foreigner. Of course, they had their bout of stupidity or ignorance on his part; regardless, they were most definitely not stupid. He shook his head, a crease adorning his forehead. The silence was pierced by the automated, somewhat cacophonic alarm on his wrist.  
It read 2:00am. He really had to leave. Ignoring the deeply rooted aches in his body, he limped toward to the severely chipped door, stopping when a metallic gleam caught his eyes.  
His hands clenched the cool metallic knob, the clock stopped and an explosion rung across the building.  
The eagle was destroyed. It really, really was.

* * *

The warm lighting was deceptive. It lit the room and eradicated the homely grey twilight. Feliciano willed his nerves to still, hesitantly shifting his weight between his two, frozen feet.

His past had come to haunt him- just as he felt secure in his pointless bureaucratic life.

The room was lavishly decorated and neatly organised. It was strangely welcoming. The room, unlike its occupants, had not aged a day. Thick silence waltzed through the room, coaxing crippling anxiety into Feliciano's gut. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of ink as he plastered a friendly smile onto his face. He straightened his crinkled night garments and stood tall, attempting to appear immaculate in his ridiculous attire.  
"Uncle, what is wrong?" he questioned "Why have I been summoned?" Feliciano bowed slightly in an attempt to evade the elderly man's intense stare.  
"I am not your uncle." The voice was devoid of warmth, laced with rage. He needed not raise his voice to insight complete horror in Feliciano whose form deflated immediately. The room immediately lost its warmth as the gravity of his predicament crushed him.

"Ye-yes, Your Majesty." Feliciano replied hastily, averting his eyes to his bare feet. Oh what a horrible surprise it had been for the young man who was dragged from the comfort of his bed, through the icy streets and into the regal hall of the Royal Residence. Silence ascended once more. He dared not move or breathe through the duration of silence. The aged man before him had power far beyond his own. The beady black eyes of the king bore into his skull and inflicted intense emotional trauma onto the fear stuck lad.  
"What have you done?" the aged king's voice trembled in indignation. The young Italian could not reply- unable to open his mouth or lift his eyes as he quaked in fear. The elder clicked his tongue in annoyance "Answer me, boy!" Again, silence.  
A lump formed in Feliciano's throat as the king's voice quaked the room.  
In an instant, blinding pain blossomed in his jaw as the elder man's metallic cane smashed across his jaw. The smell of filthy blood overwhelmed his senses, enhancing the pain as he fell to the marble floor in agony  
"What have you done, Feliciano!?" rung that anger laced voice with tremendous volume. Fear prevented any reply from Feliciano's fearful figure. He feebly grasped his bloodied jaw as the king advanced toward him, cane in hand. "The Anglo-French are furious and the American's patience is wanning while you shut your mouth, child." Feliciano swore that he tasted the unpleasantly metallic taste of blood in his mouth as he forced himself to speak.  
"I don't know what you're saying!" he paused in horror before quickly adding "I mean, I don't know, Your Majesty."  
"Rubbish." The aged monarch replied simply, his shadow looming over Feliciano's cowering form.  
The cane was brought down. It inflicted deafening pain and dug into Feliciano's olive skin. Over and over it beat him until the pain became unbearable.  
"Speak, you fiend. What. Have. You. Done?" Strikes battered his frame at each syllable muttered. Finally the beating stopped long enough for Feliciano to spit out blood and reply in resined horror  
"I'm not my brother. I don't know what you're talking about."  
The cane was long retracted now, in favour for kicks.  
"What a pity it is that I don't believe you, coward."

His past had been resurrected from the aged walls of the palace. It hovered over his beaten figure and watched, reclaiming Feliciano's future in the process.

* * *

-End.

**IMPORTANT: **This chapter has been edited

**Author's Notes: **I apologise for the lack of updates. I've recently contracted a horrible cold and have stayed at home today. My confidence in writing has also been unceremoniously debased. I've also been deconstructing a few fanfictions in the hope of writing a concise review. Anyway, I should also apologise for the disjointedness of this chapter.

I also wanted to alert you that the next chapter will be an intermission marking the end of the introduction and the commencement of the complication. I have also decided to go through with this so to buy myself some more time for school work and endeavours.

One more thing…

Did you understand what was going on (or should I rewrite this)?

Do you think that my writing is slowly becoming more concise?

Is this plot interesting or should I drop it?

**Chapter/fanfic Notes: **I just wish to clarify that there will be a few minor OCs simply to progress the plot. I am also contemplating the inclusion of a romance subplot: do you think I should do it? Additionally, I have cemented the inclusion of Nyotalia characters and AU characters.  
I also hope that you all don't mind the introduction of new country representatives. You see, I really wished to have a segment of the plot dedicated to the management of the new countries. What do y'all think about this?

I should also clarify the timeline in the chapter while I'm here. So out of the three scenes here one is based on Canada, the other on Alfred and the third on Feliciano. The first scene takes part before the events of the fanfiction and much before Alfred and Feli's birth. I just wanted to introduce the country sub-plot here. The next scene with Alfred occurs some time after the meeting in the last chapter (at 2:00 am). The final scene is set at four thirty the same day of Alfred's demise. If you are still confused (which I apologise for) please feel free to comment.

**Disclaimer: **In no way do I claim rights for the ownership of Hetalia or its characters.

**Warnings: **In the foreseeable future there will be blood and violence so it will be T and above.


	5. The Keys to the Kingdom

Nationhood was a pitiful existence: a lacklustre existence which could hollow out the fullest of hearts and simultaneously replenish it. That, Luciano despised about his occupation. His pessimism either impacted his land or the land attributed to his misery- he honest didn't care which. A perpetual cloud of resignation seemed to loom over his form, especially as he sat on his silky bed sheets, staring blankly through the window at the overcast sky. The rising sun was obstructed by the drizzling rain which swept upon the fertile lands, cleansing it of the filth from the preluding days. He'd watched the uneventful backdrop of the metropolitan setting since the early hours of the day and he'd not muttered a word to the caring embrace of silence. He heard the buzz of his despised alarm, prompting him to stretch from the soft mattress to locate the cold contours of his phone. A soft sigh escaped from his lips as he gave into the task he'd been putting off.

"Italy, what is going on?" questioned America, his voice trembling in anger "You don't attend last week's meeting and now one of my brightest citizens is dead!" Luciano, the representative of Italy groaned in misery. He was saddled with the horribly messy task of discussions with America who, until then, had been his good friend. He could visualise his American counterpart pacing around his apartment, fuming in anger. He swore that a growl of anger was emitted through the phone as he struggled to form a coherent, white lie riddled response.  
He honestly didn't know what the hell happened either.  
One moment he was tackling the tedious line of paper work, the next moment he was thrown into the deep end. The sleek phone in his hand suddenly felt unbearably heavy as his friend, lowered his voice and muttered a simple statement "Speak or so god help you."  
Luciano took the hint  
"I'm sorry. Things are horrible up here, I won't lie to you." Italy massaged his pulsing temple and gritted his teeth as his voice went superficially high "I'll talk to you later, okay?"  
"Fine. Goodbye, Luciano." muttered his friend whose irritation radiated through the horrible phone line.  
The phone call was the least of his issues, he mulled over as the phone was placed roughly on the neighbouring nightstand. Sleepiness dulled Luciano's rationality as he rolled into the embrace of his blanket. His tousled hair was pushed away as he flung himself upon the invitingly soft pillow, apathy outweighing obligation.

Perhaps he could sleep for a few more moments…

"Wake up!" Luciano was jolted from his nap as he collided with the solid ground. His bed sheets, gripped by his elder brother were thrown over his head, obstructing his vision with an avery veil.  
"You're half changed, your hair looks terrible and we're late." lectured his elder brother. Luciano grasped the pale sheets and dexterously flung them in the general direction of his sibling as he slowly rose, rubbing his aching back.  
"Sorry." muttered Luciano, exhausted. His aching muscles argued valiantly against all movement as he limped toward the mirror before him, examining his sleep deprived features. His bronzed complexion had faded to a lighter shade, evident of his country's state and he couldn't help but curse the pimple which glared back at him from his forehead. He felt a dull wave of negativity wash over his already pessimistic self.  
"Stop staring in the mirror, sleeping beauty." reprimanded his sibling, Flavio, who frowned "At least change your suit shirt- it's crinkled as hell. Also, unless you _want_ me to die, find your suit's coat and put on your cuffs!" In a huff, the older Italian left his brother in peace to scramble around his room.

Within the next few minutes, fuelled on by his brother's constant taunts and jovial treats, the nation successfully emerged from his room, fully clothed and somewhat flustered. Flavio, turned to his brother after a lapse of silence and slapped the younger man on the back "Not your day, huh!" he asked cheerfully attempting to lift his brother's aggravated air.  
"Yeah." muttered the grumpy Italian, hands concealed in his suit pocket and frown adorning his features.  
From there, their conversation halted awkwardly as an aura of tension settled momentarily. Luciano, who felt incredibly guilty for his snappish behaviour, changed the subject and swiftly disposed of the silence "I called America this morning. Needless to say, he was ready to jump at my neck. We have to schedule a meeting with his boss… Speaking of which, weren't we supposed to report to _our_ boss? Why are walking toward the opposite wing of his office?" questioned the young man, feeling disconnected with the world. His brother chuckled knowingly  
"You fell dead asleep this morning but he's the one who rescheduled our debriefing. He said something about 'overdoing it' and 'hospital'. Of course, I chased him up and found out that he's at the research sector, in the medical department. That's where we're going." Luciano's head swam with information as he followed his brother. After a moment, he stared at his brother who added "We're going to be escorted by the king's men. I made arrangements while you slept. Speaking of which, why did you fall asleep? That's so uncharacteristic of my hard working _baby _brother." Luciano caught a glance of his brother's teasing grin and half-heartedly punched the other man "Whatever happened was bad enough to crush my motivation, I guess." He remained ambiguous, avoiding his brother's watchful eyes and the question.  
Flavio, well aware of his brother's evasiveness, muttered "Let's walk a bit faster."

* * *

-End.

**Author's Notes: **Hey you guys! Sorry for the absence- exams week really is a killer. I've also been subdued by a tide of hatred toward my elementary writing :( . Anyway, I wish to warn you that the next chapter has a heap of events in it. I've written a whole lot of random scenes that will be slotted into the next chapter, somehow. Some potential shipping is also a green, now. Be excited and scared!

I would quickly like to ask. Do you all mind my tendency to write a numerous amount of scenes which jump from character to character (ie. The format in which I use the lines to signal change over three times in one chapter)? Would you rather I dedicate one chapter to one scene at a time?

Feedback on this issue is appreciated for it gives me an idea of what you, the reader's want.

**Chapter/fanfic Notes: **Bleh. I feel as though this chapter is terribly short- for that, I apologise. I simply wished to dedicate a whole chapter to this entertainingly opposite duo. They are the third set of characters for the third and final plot in this fanfiction. You see, one plot follows that of Lovino, the other of Feliciano and the final one; to the nations. In dystopic fanfictions like this, nations simply aren't replaced. Seeing an ample opportunity for potential angst, I took the liberty of adding this.

I would additionally like to explicitly state that the new representatives will be that of the 2P!characters. Additionally, I feel obligated to mention "jujunghe", the tumblr user who has greatly inspired Flavio's characterization.

This chapter is dedicated to my wonderful friend Rae (I didn't want to expose your full name): Thanks for the cute review and for helping me out with my SOSE assignment last term! Love, Drew.

**Disclaimer: **In no way do I claim rights for the ownership of Hetalia or its characters and Flavio's design belongs to Tumblr user, Jujunghe.

**Warnings: **In the foreseeable future there will be blood and violence so it will be T and above.


	6. The Secret Life of Royalty

He was immediately hit with an intense wave of nausea as the white room lit up to a blurred mess. The stench of antibacterial products burned his nose and pained his dull mind.  
"He's awake." The voice seemed light years away but, as his eyelashes filtered the light, he made out the silhouette of an elderly figure. His lips trembled as he barely managed to utter "Do-don't hurt me."  
He felt his stomach lurch and the world tilt as light rippled into black.

Falling in and out of conscious between hours, days and weeks was utterly horrible. Finally, after what he perceived to be days, he awoke to the sight of a stable, clear ceiling. As he slowly lifted himself upright, he felt warm hands pushing back to the tough mattress.  
"Your wounds are still healing, Mr Vargas. Please refrain from moving." The woman who smelt of lavender and voiced the instructions, presumably a nurse, was a tired looking lady whose firm black curls hung from a messy bun. Feliciano smiled at her blearily  
"How could I when I'm in the presence of such a beauty." The woman shook her head and left, scolding him to refrain from excessive movement and flirting.

Days passed at a boringly slow rate. One day, he was allowed to sit upright, the next day he was allowed to pace around his room (if he minded his bandages and didn't flirt) and finally, he was due to be discharged. On that particular day, he sat on the uncomfortable mattress and wracked his brain, attempting to conger up a logical explanation of the past few weeks. One moment he'd been chatting to Alfred, the next he was being dragged through the palace at dawn, then he'd been beaten senseless by the king. He feared the king's return as the event preluding to his hospitalisation still left a metallic taste in his mouth.  
Of course, the fleeting thought jinxed him.

It took Feliciano a moment to notice the rhythmic clicks and clacks of shoes. The institution he had dwelled in was always silent- that he had hated with all the more passion as the person's footsteps grew louder. Finally the noise abruptly stopped as a silhouette towered upon the frosted glass of the entrance to his hospital sweet. His heart jolted and thumped fiercely as the visitor entered the room, leaning upon the very cane which had inflicted the damage onto the young Italian. Instinctually, he crawled from the bed to the opposing corner of the room in an attempt to increase the distance between the elderly offender and himself.  
"Never in my life have I seen a boy so skilled at fleeing." The king exclaimed light heartedly, as though the events of the week had not conspired at all "Get away from that corner and sit back on the bed before you open your injuries, child." The man uttered kindly, guilt jading his beady, sunken eyes. Feliciano, who was surprisingly unaffected by the King's words, shook his head violently as he question the elder Italian, mortified "And what if you hurt me? I- I mean, please don't hurt me! I honestly didn't do anything- deport me to the labouring states or banish me but please don't hurt me." His pleas prompted an exasperated, if not slightly forced chuckle from the king who replied through gritted teeth "Sit down right now. I have news and an apology in order. Would you rather I throw you out of the window with my stiff joints?"  
Feliciano, who knew better than to fight, cautiously tread to the pale bed and sat upon the horribly tough surface. Finally, the king who had reclined in a nearby chair began chatting "You know, I remember when you were a child. A naughty thing you were- you always had a cute face though. We'd always blame your mischief on Lucca or… your other brother." The man's wrinkled contours caved in more as he deflated "It was you and Alice, actually. The stuff you two did drove me up the walls. Imagine, I had to juggle the political tasks of a leader and had to sand down the carving you two had imprinted on the door." His skin hung off his arm as he lifted it to his forehead in nostalgia "It seems like yesterday everything was so simple: Your grandfather, Chichi, Alice, Lucca, you, _that child_ and Iwere all together." He sighed as he continued "I've always asked myself what went wrong. To this day- I will continue to ask myself such a question…" Feliciano was about to reply when the king cut him off "I'm not the faceless, evil man you see. Who wants to for fill such a role, child? I don't ask to do the dirty work- I have to and I want you to understand that. Now, you may speak." Feliciano, hadn't known what to say before he silently asked "Why? Why were you so mad when you-when you" he gestured to his bandages "did this?" To this, the king exhaled exhaustedly  
"I was under the assumption that you were to blame for the events currently destroying Italy. In the recent week, as you were here, it has been brought to my attention that I had falsely accused you." His aged hand was held out toward Feliciano "I'm sorry, child." Feliciano, who was foolishly forgiving, took the elderly man's cold hand.  
"I forgive you, sir." The old man's hand fell limp and was hastily removed in favour of a saddened arm gesture.  
"I didn't mean what I said. Feliciano, you and I are as good as family." Feliciano attempted to muster up the anger pent within himself so to reply bitterly but couldn't, instead opting for a long sigh.  
"What happened?" he questioned.  
"Well," the elderly fellow began "this had to do with-"of course, the king was interrupted in midsentence by a heavy knock on the door. Feliciano made out the vague outline of two men as the king paused and replied rather sourly "Please, come in."

In swept two immaculately dressed men, both remarkably similar to one another. The shorter man of the duo cleared his throat and began "Sir, I apologise for the intrusion but we have news of America-" The young man stared right at Feliciano and quickly exited the room, as though he'd forgotten his request.  
The king sighed once more and swept out of the room, the creak of the chair the only sound ringing in Feliciano's ears. The hospitalised man, whose legs swung at the side of the elevated bed cautiously lifted his eyes to his lone companion. Much like his partner, the younger man stared at Feliciano with an unidentifiable expression which slowly eased into that of a guarded smile.  
"Now, who are you?" questioned the well-dressed fellow who couldn't have been more than 18.  
"It's a pleasure to meet you, I guess. My name's Feliciano Vargas- and yours?" the sight of the accomplished man filled Feliciano with an unwarranted swell of pride. To the cheerful inquiry, the younger man replied, taken aback  
"My name's Sou- uhh- Flavio. Sorry about that, it's been a long week." To this awkward reply, Feliciano held out his hand, per the formal greeting, willing the man to move. His handshake slowly transitioned into a typically Italian greeting, much to the other man's horror.  
"Sorry." Feliciano uttered as he pulled away from the man's tense form "I thought that Alfred was the only one…"  
"No." the younger fellow replied personably "It's okay. I'm just a little out of things." Catching sight of another shadow upon the frosted glass, Flavio nodded his head and angled his head to Feliciano's idle form and announced politely "I'll have to excuse myself."  
"Ve, go ahead. I love your tie, by the way" Again, Feliciano noticed the other man shift awkwardly before briskly exiting the room, subconsciously thumbing his pink tie all the while.  
As the other man exited the room, Feliciano eased himself into a lounging position and stared through the opened blinds, absentmindedly. He decided that he'd rather the weather be brighter, as he was greeted by the dreary grey sky.

Feliciano proceeded to mindlessly hum as his the curious men chatted to the elderly man. After the duration of thirty minutes he opted to pace around the white room, constantly adjusting the cotton polo and jeans he'd been provided by an unknown source. Somehow, he decided whist he tapped his sandals on the tiled flooring, that it was a suspicious donation. It endlessly bothered him that the fashion was so horrible. He simply sighed as he played with the hemming of the shirt, growing terribly bored in the confines of the unpleasantly pale room.

Feliciano stared at the ceiling, mentally mapped the room and counted the tiles trice before the trio entered his room  
"Feliciano, please come with me." The king instructed simply whilst the other men remained positively apathetic to his presence. To this, Feliciano merely complied- far too confused to act otherwise. He was lead to a large car with tinted screens and polished black paint and was whisked into the life of the politically elite and royal. The hours bled into the orange tint of midday as his mind stumbled behind his physical actions. Before he could mentally recount the events of that day, he found himself seated before the king, in his shaded office.  
"I'm sure you wish to know what happened before the current events." Stated the king.  
"Yes, uncle." Feliciano's fingers drummed on his lap in anticipation- finally he'd understand what on earth was conspiring.  
"This regards your brother." The king muttered, simply "He's gone too far, this time." The kings dull eyes shifted sadly from Feliciano's confused stare before he continued "A few weeks ago, the day of our meeting, early in the morning, Alfred F Jones, our American youth ambassador was killed in an explosion. The day before this… one of our own committed suicide- it's treated suspiciously, though." Feliciano, whose hands trembled and eyes burned, stared at the king, expectantly. To this, the elderly Italian's voice fell to a melancholy whisper "You were suspected because you are associated with both of the parties: Lucca Vargas and Alfred F Jones." In no way was the news treated delicately. In fact, as Feliciano wheezed in agony, the king could do nothing more but passively avert his eyes "I'm sorry Feliciano."  
"No-no, you're lying. There's no way…" Feliciano, whose body was wracked with hiccups as continued he spoke "There's no way- no way." As his voice cracked and the tears which he'd held at bay, were released. Greeted by a melancholic side stare and the taunting whispers of naught, he felt his non-existent temper flare.  
He shook his head, forcefully whipping the tears from his eyes and violently stood upright  
"No. You're lying."  
The chair in which Feliciano previously slouched in was forcefully pushed backward, almost toppling from the force, as the young Italian left the room and did what he did best: fled.  
Now, he ran, through the blurred halls, as the world spun turbulently on its axis, finally staggering forward, blinded by filtered sunlight. His heart pumped in his chest and he struggled to breathe through the tears, collapsing to his knees, painfully grazing his knees against the gravel. He clasped his mouth, nausea and dizziness getting the best of him as he knelt in the garden, trying to forget.

* * *

Sunlight filtered through the wild grape vines and coaxed Feliciano to move. How long had he been there for? He certainly didn't know. He walked steadily through the unchanged garden, deeply occupied by the crunch of gravel beneath his boots; the identifiably natural scent and the crisp, cold waves of cold which lapped at his cheeks. At that moment, he felt incredibly old and decrepit, as though the weight of the country were upon him. He pondered as one who is to be crushed by the stress and obligations of adulthood, the beauty of the garden slowly warping into the unacknowledged backdrop of a fleeting scene.  
His moment of peace was incipiently interrupted by a particular individual who swooped in on him.  
"Mr Vargas." Acknowledged Luciano coolly, startling Feliciano "How are your injuries?"  
"I'm fine, thank you." A smile graced Feliciano's bronzed complexion, masking a fleeting moment of fear "What brings you here, Luciano?" he asked in return, fancying the prospect of conversation.  
"To be quite blunt, I'm here to discuss something with you." Luciano's face was a mask of indifference yet his eyes seemed to narrow cautiously. Feliciano, by this point, was silent. He too was cautious, well aware that Luciano could be a saboteur.  
"Ve, it is what you wish…" he mumbled, all too suddenly, his mouth felt dry. Feliciano's response prompted an uncharacteristic frown from the Luciano before his face turned returned to discerning ice once more.  
"The king is most unhappy and … I have a proposition." Muttered the younger man, eyes averting.  
"Really?" Feliciano questioned, intrigued by Luciano's behaviour.  
Feliciano stopped in his tracks and awaited Luciano's response.  
"I suspect that the politicians are still weary of your place in this whole mess- this I can change. In return, you shall work alongside the king and I to quash the rebellion." Feliciano was no idiot. He knew that the response was already set and that the conditions of his response would plunge a blade into his brother's back.  
"Fine." He muttered, his eyes alarmingly widened, dispelling his grin "I agree. What happens now, ve?" At that moment he despised the knowing smirk which subtly adorned Luciano's youthful face.  
"Please await my response. Good bye, comrade." Before the younger man briskly fled from Feliciano, he turned and muttered "I'm sorry about your losses."  
Feliciano barely contained the sudden urge to pummel Luciano's sly face as the devious lad swaggered away, leaving him in silence.

* * *

-End.

**Author's Notes: ** I must admit, my studies have been neglected because of writing. Whatever, though. This week, I've casually been wallowing in tears over Luciano and Flavio. Man, do these characters have a tonne of trouble in for them. I feel like I'm neglecting Lovino's story- sorry. I just can't find the motivation to talk about him. Maybe, in the next few chapters he'll be focused on. Also, I CANNOT WAIT for THE MISERY WHICH WILL FOLLOWW. Whoo.

**Chapter/fanfic Notes: **I really dislike this chapter but… yeah. If you can give me some tips, it'll be appreciated. I particularly feel like Feliciano's breakdown isn't an impacted scene for you guys. Im sorrryyyyy.

**Disclaimer: **In no way do I claim rights for the ownership of Hetalia or its characters.

**Warnings: **In the foreseeable future there will be blood and violence so it will be T and above.


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